


Calling the King

by PeroxidePirate



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Sword and the Flame - Christian
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeroxidePirate/pseuds/PeroxidePirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Catherine Christian's <i>The Sword and the Flame,</i> which tells the story of Arthurian legend from Bedivere's perspective. Ygern, sister of King Arthur, deals with fate and relationships when she is called on to help the Merlin bring her brother back from the edge of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosemaryandrue (Rosie_Rues)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/gifts).



> This is pretty much gen -- there's some subtle het romance, maybe, but that's not really what the story's about. I chose to end the story where I did because the next scene is described in canon (although from Bedivere's POV, not Ygern's). Apologies for any mispellings, garblings of names/place names/other details -- this was a little last minute. Finally, Rosie_Rues, THANK YOU for introducing me to this book!! I was so intrigued by the rec in your Dear Santa letter, I ordered the book &amp; then decided it would be much more fun to write than the thing we actually matched on. I hope you like the fic!

 

“Ygern!” came a call.

 

I looked at Jareth, the druid-priest who had been working with me. He shifted position, bracing his shoulder against the heavy log we had just moved into place, and then nodded his assent.

 

I carefully released my hold on the log, then turned toward the voice. “Celidon! What is it?” The Merlin must have been near to the stable when he called my name, but by now he had almost reached the keep itself. He was close enough that I could see the worry writ plain on his face.

 

“It's the Pendragon. He's been shot.”

 

“And?”

 

“By a Pictish arrow.”

 

I felt the blood drain from my face, and had to put out a hand to steady myself against the sound part of the keep's wall. The Picts poisoned their arrows with a deadly substance, so none survived even the slightest graze.

 

“It is war then, for he never named an heir.” I could see it in my mind's eye, the companions divided, betrayal on all sides, and the downfall of all we had sought to achieve. “Brother against brother: Morgause, for Dalraida, will seek to rule the whole of Britain, in her name or that of her son, Aglavain. Gawain will fight to uphold what Arthur stood for. The others will split...” My vision cleared, and I managed to meet Celidon's eyes. “We ride at dawn?”

 

“We ride at once. The Pendragon still lives.”

 

.

 

I stopped only twice, and briefly, before we left. Once in my quarters, to collect the satchel one of the other priestesses has packed for me. And once to speak with Igraine, the Lady of the Lake: she whose name I had been given as an infant, and whose shoes I knew I must one day fill. We were as mother and daughter, nearly, and far beyond the stage of my apprenticeship where it was usual for me to bow to her. But that day, when I came upon her standing by the lakeshore, looking out toward the island shrine, it was only natural for me to drop to my knees before her and take her hands between mine.

 

“Know this, my lady,” I promised her. “I will bring him safely through. I know what it is to lose a son.”

 

“You shall know,” she said, but I did not then properly attend to her words. “My son will be in good hands.”

 

I kissed her fingertips, then let go. She rested one hand atop my head in benediction. “Godspeed, my daughter.”

 

.

 

It was not my first headlong, horseback flight through the countryside, nor was it my last. So there is nothing to say about the ride itself, save that it seemed to take far too long. It was night when we reached Camelot, exhausted from hard riding and lack of sleep, but Celidon and I went immediately to work. Later my heart would twist at the memory of Arthur – my brother, my king – lying feverish and helpless in his bed. The first hours, though, I allowed myself no emotion.

 

When we entered Arthur's chamber, the first person we saw was my old friend Palomides, whose kindness had so long ago kindled my interest in the healing arts. Another time, we would have expressed great joy at seeing one another; that night, though, our eyes met as colleagues only.

 

“Thank the gods,” he whispered. Then, stronger: “I've given him the antidote. His body lives on, but of his spirit, I cannot say.”

 

“We are here.” Celidon went to the physician, warmly clasping his arm. “You have done your work – bless you for it. Now you must let us do ours.”

 

Palomides blinked, as though dazed.

 

“Go now,” I said, as gently as I could. “Sleep a while. It's no good to him, or any of us, if you work yourself sick.”

 

“Of course,” he said at last. After some quick instructions to his assistants, he went out.

 

I stopped the page that followed after him. “See to it he sleeps,” I said, pressing a small linen packet into his hand. “Brew a tisane with this. He must rest.”

 

“And we must stay alert,” Celidon said, as the door closed behind the page. From the folds of his robe he drew a worn leather wallet. “Hold out your hand.”

 

What he gave me then is one of the things folk called magic: leaves, berries, and mushrooms in a combination that lends one strength and energy in the worst of circumstances. The exact recipe is a secret, though I know it now. Used excessively, it can cause one to behave like the Saxon berserkers. Used carefully, then, it made it possible for us to save my brother.

 

As Celidon's powerful draught made its way into my system, he prepared the room. He lit candles in a special sequence around Arthur's bed, had the assistant physicians bring water both boiling and cold, and directed me to say specific prayers.

 

At last he ordered everyone else out of the room. Then, when the two of us alone stood beside Arthur's inert body, he gripped my shoulders and looked directly at me. “Do you understand what we're doing?”

 

“We're saving his life.”

 

“No!” he snapped. “Palomides saved his life, but not his spirit. We are saving that.”

 

I rested both hands on his elbows, willing us both to be calm. “Palomides could only save his body. We are saving _him._”

 

“Perhaps you do understand,” Celidon mused. “But remember this: the body lives, but it is not as it was. He may wish to remain free of it, to move on... and though it will hurt us all, we cannot allow that.”

 

“Britain needs him,” I agreed. “I'm ready.”

 

“Very well.”

 

We knelt on opposite sides of the bed, facing one another, with Arthur between us. Celidon began to recite an ancient incantation, calling on death itself to give us back the man who was fated to lead all of Britain.

 

It was not something I had learned yet, but somehow I found myself joining in. I realized, with a shock, that Igraine was guiding me. She had stayed behind at the Island, in keeping with a vow she had made long before. But she must have been keeping vigil, all the same, and now she joined her strength with mine.  _So I would do for my son_ , I remember thinking.

 

Then I dropped into a vision clearer and more real than anything else I had experienced. I could see Arthur in the distance, middle-aged as he was then, but strong and whole and completely unlike the ruined body that lay before my physical self. 

 

“Arthur!” I called. He had been looking away, into the hazy distance, but he turned back at my call.

 

“Ygern,” he said, and took a step toward me. He seemed to lose a little of his vigor, but he kept coming. With every step, I could see his health diminish.

 

A few yards from me, he halted. His face screwed up with pain, and I could see he was gritting his teeth.

 

“Arthur, what's wrong?” I asked.

 

“No!” he shouted, and began to turn away.

 

“Call him back,” Igraine said, at my elbow.

 

“Arthur, come back!”

 

He turned toward me and slowly took a step, then another. He stopped, resting his hands on his thighs. “I can't.”

 

Tears of sympathy leaked down my cheeks.

 

“He can,” Celidon said. I looked quickly: he and Igraine flanked my astral form, half a pace behind.

 

“You can and you must,” I said. 

 

He stepped forward, as an old man might: small, shuffling steps, each one hurting him. “Let me go,” he begged. The nearer he came, the more he resembled the crumpled figure on the bed.

 

“My son.” Igraine's voice was little more than a whisper.

 

I turned to Celidon, his strength a wall at my back. “There must be another way,” I pleaded.

 

His eyes were hard. “You've seen the alternative, have you not? When you thought he was dead...”

 

“Yes,” I admitted. “But surely...”

 

When the Merlin spoke again, his voice had the weight of a command. “Ygern, his work here is not finished.  _This is not his fate_ . Call him back!”

 

I closed my eyes, gathered my courage, and then – numbing myself as best I could to the pain he was surely feeling – I spoke as Celidon had spoken. “Arthur, come back. Take my hand.”

 

He took one more step, hand stretched out. Then he stopped, dropping to his knees. “Please, Ygern...”

 

I reached one hand behind me, clasping Celidon's wrist. “Hang on,” I whispered. Then I leaned forward, as far as I could, and reached out. “Arthur. For Britain.”

 

With a mighty effort of will, he threw himself forward. He cried out in pain as my fingertips touched his, and then he collapsed at my feet: broken and ill from the poison, but easily within my reach.

 

.

 

In the great bedchamber of Fort Camelot, I opened my eyes. “Arthur?” I whispered, voice barely a croak.

 

“Ygern,” came his answer. His eyes flickered open, briefly. “It hurts.”

 

“Hush, now.” I brushed the hair from his brow, which no longer felt feverish. “You're home.”

 

He drifted into an easy sleep, and I knew his recovery had begun.

 

.

 

I must have collapsed where I was, kneeling beside Arthur's bed, for the next thing I knew, I was blinking slowly awake in a room I had never before seen. The blankets were warm, the bed excessively soft, and afternoon sunlight slatted through the shutters.

 

A smooth-haired young woman came into view with a tray in her hands. “My lady?”

 

Suddenly I was ravenously hungry. “Thank you,” I said, as she arranged the food on a table beside the bed. As I ate, I looked around, curiously.

 

“It's the queen's chamber,” the girl said. “You'll have heard she's... gone... from here?”

 

“Yes.” I bit back an exasperated sigh, wondering how many of the court would see me, again, as a surrogate queen.

 

The wench was still hovering, as though waiting for something else. “What is it?” I finally asked.

 

“There's someone else to see you. May I show him in?”

 

.

 

“Mother,” Medraut said, kneeling beside my bed.

 

It was a small surprise to realize he had become a stranger to me. The true shock, though, was realizing my recognition of his adult face had nothing to do with the boy he had been: I had seen the man's face in my dreams, and my visions, time and again. Every time I saw my king betrayed, it was this man –  _my son_ – who commited the betrayal.

 

His eyes were cold and calculating, disturbingly like those of Morgause, queen of Dalraida. “How is my.... king?” he asked.

 

Anger gave me sudden strength, and I pushed the breakfast table away. “The king recovers. He will be himself again soon enough.” I stared at him, matching his coldness with my own. “He will recover, he will choose an heir, and all Britain will benefit.” Unspoken was the correllary:  _his heir will not be you, and you will not stop him._

 

“It's a pity he does not have a son,” Medraut said, eyebrow twitching oddly.

 

“Is that what this is about?” I nearly laughed – twenty years, and nothing had changed. Then I grew stern, watching Medraut with renewed intensity. “Listen here: _you are not his son._ Harm him again, or cause further harm to come to him, and you will wish to all the gods of a thousand nations that you were not _my_ son, either. Now get out of my sight.”

 

He stood, gave me a mocking bow, and went.

 

Only then did Igraine's words come back to me. I had thought Medraut dead once. But the day I lost my son is the day he so much as admitted trying to kill my king.

 

.

 

That evening I found my way to Celidon's usual room, and the page stationed outside let me in. 

 

The Merlin greeted me warmly. “You did well,” he said, clasping my hands. 

 

I looked away, suddenly fighting back tears. “Do you know who poisoned him?” I asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

I was ashamed to look at him.

 

“It was written long ago,” he said. “Do not blame yourself, Ygern. You cannot change your own moira, let alone that of another.” Gently but firmly, he tilted my chin up so I had to look at him. His eyes were shining with love and pride “You did what you had to last night. You have done very well with the lot you've been given.” 

 

When I could no longer bear the intensity of his gaze, I turned my face into his hand and closed my eyes. “You'll stay here for a while?” I asked, and his lean, calloused fingers caressed my cheek.

 

“I'll be here when I can,” he said. I knew he would not promise more. “There is one other who needs you, yet.”

 

I sighed. “Bedivere.” I knew, in my heart, that he would be arriving soon – and, as always, he would ask much of me. But then, much had been asked of him, too.

 

“Yes.”

 

Celidon was still watching me when I opened my eyes. “And if  _I_ need  _you?_ ” I asked, trying to keep the pleading out of my voice.

 

He made an effort to retain his composure, but the corners of his eyes crinkled with amused affection. I reached up to touch the web of fine crow's feet there. He smiled in spite of himself, and said, “Haven't I always been where you needed me?”

 

Much had changed through the decades since Arthur's kingmaking, but Celidon was right: he was always where he was needed. At this moment, that meant he was with me.

 

“My lord?” called the page, as he opened the door. “Sir Bedivere's arrived.”

 


End file.
